


The Jumper

by dollarstorecandy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Friendship Problems, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Internalized Sexuality Issues, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Overcoming Issues, Rough Sex, Self-Discovery, Shame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollarstorecandy/pseuds/dollarstorecandy
Summary: Ron’s casual, supposedly uncomplicated ‘thing’ with Malfoy is threatened when Malfoy makes a move Ron never could have anticipated.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

Ron sits at the bar nursing a pint and observing the party around him. Harry’s just closed another case—he’s the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s golden boy, just as everyone expected him to be—and they’re celebrating putting another dark wizard away for life. Malfoy’s there too, not that anyone invited him. He just always seems to be around when he’s least wanted. He’s wearing posh robes, deep green, high-collared and easily more expensive than Ron’s own jeans and button-down shirt combination and likely his entire wardrobe as well.

Ron’s not bitter about it anymore because he has riches beyond money, as Mum would say and his friends prove to him everyday. He’s not bitter about Harry’s achievements either, no matter what anyone tries to insinuate. He’s proud of how well Harry’s doing, how much better, even, now that Ron’s left the Aurors himself and started helping George with the shop instead. He’s not bitter or angry; in fact, he’s happy, happier now than he’s been in a very long time, and he knows it has a lot to do with his decision to leave the pressures of dark wizard catching behind and deal with normal people who just want to buy a puddle of fake vomit or a collapsible wand. Plus, George needs him now more than Harry needs him. Harry’s doing just fine. He’s got Ginny, he’s got Hermione and he’s got his new partner Swidmore or Swivens or something with an S, and Ron’s perfectly content to let Harry just be the best mate he shares a house with and occasionally takes to the Crown and Cauldron for a pint or three.

“You look like you’ve got dung under your nose, Weasel.” Malfoy leans back with his elbows on the bar, facing the party too.

“Must be that shitty cologne of yours, Ferret,” Ron replies quickly, as he schools his expression to a more appropriately bland one.

Malfoy sniffs, haughty and self-important. “I suppose one cannot expect an uncultured swine like yourself to appreciate the finer things in life. My cologne cost more than that hovel your parents call a house,” he says.

A half-smile plays at Ron’s lips. “Never going to let that one lie, are you? I’d have thought you’d run out of Burrow material at this point.” He turns his head to see Malfoy’s lips mirror his own, just barely curving up, as if he can’t be caught out in his amusement, but unable to hide it entirely. “Did Nott invite you?”

“He did. Seems to think I have any interest in his work at all, the wanker,” Malfoy drawls. “He did promise a prominent crowd, though, which he seems to have mostly delivered...present company excluded, of course.”

Ron’s fingers involuntarily curl into fists, but he maintains the coolness in his tone. It always rankles Malfoy more when he doesn’t rise to the bait. “So sorry to disappoint. Why don’t you head over and see Harry? I’m sure he’d introduce you to that Auror chappie he’s talking to,” he says, evenly, keeping his eyes ahead on the party. “I’m sure you two would have loads to talk about, yeah?”

“Completed acquitted, Weasley,” Malfoy answers, with an edge to his tone once again. Ron grins outright, as Malfoy turns to him and adds, “Which you very well know.”

“Oh, that’s right. Isn’t it amazing what old Lucius’s money can do,” Ron sarcastically replies.

Malfoy glares at him for a moment before he hums in the back of his throat and shrugs his shoulders dismissively. Ron rolls his eyes, drains the rest of his pint in one long pull and then turns around to order himself another. He doesn’t comment when Malfoy orders a whiskey on his tab and instead clinks his glass against Malfoy’s when they both receive their drinks.

The game is less fun than it used to be, Ron can admit. The boyish antagonism, the charmless insults that have lost the vitriol that once made them wiggle their way beneath Ron’s skin and into his blood—the flavor is gone. He suspects why this is so, but he doesn’t particularly want to admit it, as admitting it would almost certainly end the game entirely, and Ron’s not ready for checkmate just yet.

Some half-in-the-bag wizard in an old Arrows jersey jostles Ron as he comes up on the other side to order a drink, and Ron stumbles over a bit into Malfoy’s space. “Careful, you great bloody oaf,” Malfoy cries out. “These are Baudelaire spider silk!”

“I’m sorry, they’re what now?” Ron sets his pint glass down and turns to face Malfoy head-on.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow and inches minutely forward. “Baudelaire spider silk,” he drawls in a low tone, “from his spring collection, and they cost more than you make in a year.”

Ron surreptitiously reaches forward and takes a bit of Malfoy’s sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. The smooth fabric catches a bit on a callus on his finger, and Ron certainly believes that the material cost Malfoy a relative fortune. “You’re such a ponce,” Ron murmurs, and his lips quirk up into a triumphant smirk when he notices the way Malfoy’s eyes flick down to watch his mouth as he speaks. “Always so fancy,” Ron continues, “and always just begging to get dirty.”

Malfoy’s breath catches as he manages to say, “Yes.”

The moment they reach the toilets, Ron sets upon Malfoy, shoving him up against the door and kissing him roughly. Malfoy struggles a bit until he gets his hands underneath Ron’s shirt, his long fingers skimming at the skin of Ron’s lower back.

Ron then slides a hand through the clasps that hold together Malfoy’s stupid, expensive, poncey robes, but instead of the skin he wants to touch, his fingers catch on wool. Ron steps back as Malfoy lets the robes slide off to pool in a heap on the bathroom floor, and his eyes widen in surprise and confusion. Malfoy’s wearing his Weasley jumper—his, _Ron’s_ —a maroon one with a bright Gryffindor gold R. Ron hadn’t been able to find it for the last few weeks, but he assumed it just ended up in Harry’s laundry basket or something. Not here on Malfoy, while Malfoy’s beautiful expensive robes mix with the filth on the floor.

Malfoy looks down at himself, and his slender, pale fingers play with the hem of the jumper. When he looks up again, he cannot meet Ron’s eyes—embarrassed, vulnerable even, and something odd clenches in Ron’s chest.

It isn't normal, is the thing; for as long as they've been doing this, and it's been some time now, Malfoy has the kind of opening salvo that Ron's learned to counter easily. He takes control of the board within two moves, and he's more than sure Malfoy likes it that way. He wouldn't keep coming back if he didn't. This is...unexpected.

But Ron doesn’t want to think about unexpected chest clenches or suspicious lumps in throats—he doesn’t want to think about anything at all, when they're at it like this. So instead he moves. He pushes Malfoy up against the door again and shoves the jumper up to his armpits so that he can’t see the golden R. He drags a hand down Malfoy’s chest, as he leans in and starts to suck on the spot behind Malfoy’s left ear that never fails to weaken his knees and make him soft and pliant.

Malfoy’s legs buckle, but Ron shoves a thigh between his knees as he continues his assault on Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy grinds against him and lets out a high whine when Ron nips at a cord of muscle just begging to be marked. “Shut up,” Ron hisses against Malfoy’s neck, “or someone’s going to come in here and find you moaning like a bitch in heat.” He smiles as Malfoy sucks in a quick breath and doesn’t make a further sound. Malfoy’s always oddly obedient when they fuck around like this, and Ron has to admit that it appeals.

Ron pushes Malfoy back just enough to get a hand between them. He undoes Malfoy’s flies and quickly wraps a large hand around Malfoy’s cock. Like the rest of him, Malfoy’s cock is long and slim, and the velvety slide of his foreskin over his shaft feels good in Ron’s hand. Ron hums in the back of his throat and grins as Malfoy, still silent but clearly desperate to share how it feels, fumbles to undo Ron’s flies as well.

They find a rhythm after a couple false starts, and Ron’s eyes remain locked on Malfoy’s grey ones, but there’s nothing romantic about it. This isn’t how things used to be when he and Hermione were still together, when they would lie together in bed, hands clasped and breathing the same air, as he entered her gently and they rocked together until they came. No, with Malfoy, Ron just likes to see the slowly disappearing grey as Malfoy’s pupils dilate in arousal, and the exact moment that it catches up with Malfoy what’s happening: he’s being brought off by a Weasley and he’s all but begging for it because it’s just so damn good.

“You going to come for me, Malfoy?” Ron asks, letting his thumb circle over the head of Malfoy’s cock. “Are you going to come?” Malfoy’s eyes flutter shut as he fights it. “Go on...come. You know you want to do it. You’re aching for it. Just do it. Just come.”

Malfoy’s response is to bite down on his lip and stroke Ron faster, determined not to lose again, but it’s useless and Ron knows it. Malfoy’s too close, and Ron's too good at this. Ron swats Malfoy’s hand away from his cock and then wraps them both together in his own hand. They frot frantically for a moment before Malfoy cries out and starts to release. “Oh, fuck, Weasley!” he moans, as his head tips forward to rest on Ron’s shoulder. He shudders out his climax and then sinks, boneless, to his knees.

Ron strokes himself roughly, pulling quickly on his cock and reaching down with his other hand to gently squeeze his bollocks. Then, when Malfoy tilts up his head and opens his mouth, Ron comes with a low groan, stroking out his release onto Malfoy’s upturned face. He lets his head fall back against the door and closes his eyes as he breathes, trying to get himself back under control and come down from the high.

After several long moments, he opens his eyes again and tucks his spent cock back into his jeans. Ron inhales through his nose and exhales long and slow through his mouth, watching as Malfoy carefully puts himself back together as well. Malfoy lowers the jumper that Ron had almost forgotten about, setting it back down his chest and running his hands over it for good measure. It’s only when Ron notices the twinge has returned to his chest that he realizes he needs to leave right now before he has to actually examine his bizarre reaction to seeing Malfoy in his clothes.

“Later, Ferret,” he says quietly, as he turns and unlocks the bathroom door to leave.

“Yes, later, Weasel,” Malfoy replies, just as softly.


	2. Chapter 2

The shop is very crowded, and George has his hands full demonstrating the new line of products in the Skivving Snackboxes to a group of Hogwarts rising Fifth Years, so Ron reluctantly takes over the till from a very relieved-looking Verity when her morning shift ends. It’s not that Ron doesn’t like manning the till and ringing up the customers, but rather that his eyes have been drawn to and following Malfoy ever since the little brat slipped into the shop behind a frazzled mother and her four younger children, and Ron’s certain that he’s given the wrong change back to at least four of the last five customers. Thankfully, the afternoon clerk arrives and rushes up to the counter with a million apologies for his tardiness and promises to do better tomorrow. Ron just hurriedly performs the accounting spell that counts down the drawer, hands it off to Robin and makes a beeline for the stacks where he saw Malfoy disappear moments before.

“Do people really need these?” Malfoy asks, as Ron walks up behind him, and lifts up a pint glass with Neville’s picture on it.

Ron rolls his eyes. “Nobody really needs any of what we sell, but they want it, and that’s really all that matters, right?” he asks.

“I suppose that’s commerce for you,” Malfoy replies, with a shrug, as he sets down the Neville glass and picks up a Harry one. “I suppose you can’t make these quickly enough.”

He’s not wrong, but Ron doesn’t answer. “What are you doing here?” he then asks, even as his fingers seek out and grip Malfoy’s linen cloak, tugging him until Malfoy’s back is pressed against his chest.

“I’m out shopping.” Malfoy’s tone is carefully even, and Ron chuckles low in Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy arches his back a bit and grinds his arse against Ron’s groin. “I felt like seeing if there was anything here,” Malfoy continues, breath hitching as Ron slides a hand over his stomach, “that I might like to take home.”

Malfoy’s wearing the jumper again, Ron knows. He recognizes the wool his mum always uses, feels it drag against his fingertips beneath Malfoy’s cloak, and when he comes around to stand in front of Malfoy up against the shelves, the look in Malfoy’s eyes shows him that Malfoy knows just how fucking weird this is, how fucked up and strange. He looks suddenly nervous, and Ron feels that same odd feeling he doesn’t know how to name.

The first time Ron nonviolently got his hands on Malfoy, he didn’t even have the excuse of inebriation to smooth over what later felt like a complete lapse in judgment. Neither did he have the excuse of an immediate broken heart, having split from Hermione nearly a year before. There’d been nothing really for Ron to blame dragging Malfoy into an empty bedroom and having his wicked way with him on, other than actual desire. The desire might have been, as it continued to be now well into their acquaintance, to wipe the stupid smirk from Malfoy’s mouth or make him eat his ever-so-infuriating words, but desire it had been nonetheless.

Ron remembered the way Malfoy’s eyes had betrayed him then too. The surprise that Ron would even be interested in him darkened with heat when Ron stepped closer, pushed into Malfoy’s personal space and dared him to offer again. _”Why don’t you make me, Weasel?”_ he’d said again, a whisper that time, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. It seemed like Malfoy was always asking for it, actually, the more Ron thought about it.

In the present, Malfoy unclasps his cloak and indeed there the jumper is again, a maroon and gold monstrosity of wool, that’s entirely too big for Malfoy’s more slender frame. They may be of a height, but Ron’s broader across the chest and shoulders, and Malfoy might as well be swimming in the damn thing. The rest of his outfit, though, is a masterpiece of tight, form-fitting Muggle trousers, and it’s nearly as surprising as the jumper itself is. In spite of himself, Ron’s mouth waters.

So he ignores the damnable, inconvenient chest twinges and pulls Malfoy in for a harsh, bruising kiss. He all but growls out _you’re coming home with me now_ , before he grips Malfoy’s hips and Side-Alongs them both to his bedroom, the rest of his shift at the store be damned. They land roughly, and Ron, dizzy from lust more than travel, wastes no time in tearing off Malfoy’s linen cloak, shiny black shoes and black denims. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all that this time he leaves the jumper on just as it is, nor does it have to mean anything that he grips the hem of it as he’s sliding his other hand into Malfoy’s pants.

Malfoy bucks his hips hard as Ron pulls his cock free of the tight confines of his black y-fronts. He does it again when Ron tucks the waistband beneath Malfoy’s bollocks, but Ron makes no other move to remove them entirely. Instead, Ron lets go of Malfoy, but only long enough to position himself as he likes, straddling Malfoy’s pale thighs and then leaning over to trap Malfoy’s hands above his head.

“Weasley, you—”

“—shut up,” Ron interrupts harshly. “Just shut up until I decide you can say something.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen, but he makes a show of carefully, slowly shutting his mouth and pressing his lips together.

Ron lets out a mean chuckle. “Oh, so that _is _all it takes to get you to shut your annoying gob?” Ron rolls his hips in a slow thrust that only allows his still-clothed cock to brush slightly against Malfoy’s drawn-up bollocks. Malfoy whimpers, but doesn’t say anything. “Here I thought you wouldn’t dare follow a Weasley’s orders, but I guess there was never a big, fat cock in it for you before.”__

__Malfoy’s eyes widen impossibly further, his pupils swallowing nearly all the grey, and he shivers from head to toe. Ron frowns gently, considering, and rolls his hips again. He wants, he realizes, to tease Malfoy into opening his mouth just to see if Malfoy will disobey him._ _

__“I think we’ll play a little game,” Ron continues. “I think we’ll see just how long it takes for you to say something. The longer you hold out, the more’s in it for you. What do you say?” Malfoy sucks in a breath as Ron reaches down between them and lets his fingers curl around Malfoy’s erection. He nods furiously in agreement, and Ron grins back at him. “Good, now let’s get you situated for me.”_ _

__He climbs off and divests himself of his remaining clothes, watching the growing hunger in Malfoy’s eyes and taking a moment or two to preen under the attention. Ron knows he’s a relatively handsome bloke, but it still feels good to know that someone as naturally disdainful as Malfoy can look upon him with obvious appreciation._ _

__Ron smirks down at Malfoy as he pulls Malfoy’s pants off at last. The jumper still stays, though. Malfoy still looks rather good in it, face flushed from the heat, and the need, and the exertion of holding off saying anything. Merlin, he looks so pretty when he’s trying desperately to obey. “Now get up on your knees,” Ron commands. He waits briefly while Malfoy rolls over and clambers up onto his knees, popping his arse up in the air. “Look mum,” he continues, teasing, as he suddenly grabs Malfoy’s hands and pushes them up over his head, “no hands.” He slips Malfoy’s hands through one of the leg-holes of Malfoy’s pants and puts the other over the bedknob, stretching Malfoy’s arms long and trapping him up against the headboard._ _

__Malfoy squirms and nearly tugs himself free of his makeshift bonds, before Ron sets a light Sticking Charm to keep Malfoy exactly where he wants him. Malfoy’s lips remain stubbornly, enticingly pressed together. Ron knows he wants to say something, wants to disobey. He probably wants to spout some hateful nonsense or bitch about Ron’s technique. He’s always got something to say, and right now, he can’t._ _

__“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” Ron asks, as he shoves Malfoy’s thighs apart and settles behind him. Malfoy lets out a low whine, as Ron trails his fingers down Malfoy’s back, before he grabs a fistful of jumper. Normally he likes to feel Malfoy’s skin, the smooth, pale expanse that glistens when he sweats, but there’s something unexpectedly arousing about keeping him partially clothed—which must be why he’s doing it and no other reason whatsoever. “It’s entirely against your nature, isn’t it?” he continues, in a low voice. “You just love the sound of your own voice.”_ _

__Malfoy shivers hard, and before Ron can think twice to stop himself, he raises his hand and slaps Malfoy’s bare arse. Malfoy cries out and arches his back as best he can from his awkward position, pushing his arse back as if to ask for more, since he cannot actually request it of Ron._ _

__“Again?” Ron asks, letting his fingers trail lightly across Malfoy’s arse-cheek. “You can answer.”_ _

__“Yes!” Malfoy practically explodes. “Yes, please, yes, again!”_ _

__“Shut up!” Ron shouts, even as he lets fly again and smacks Malfoy’s arse harder this time. “Keep that pretty little mouth shut now.”_ _

__Malfoy whines again, but keeps his mouth otherwise shut._ _

__“That’s my good boy,” Ron says, as he slides his fingers across the bright red mark his palm left on Malfoy’s arse. He presses a finger tip there for a moment, watching the skin turn white and then back to red again. “If you can stay absolutely quiet for the next five, I’ll give you a reward. Do you think you can do that?” he asks._ _

__Malfoy nods, and Ron barely gives him a second to finish before he spanks Malfoy again, thrice in quick succession. He holds off before delivering the fourth and fifth, letting his fingers trail across the red marks admiringly. Malfoy’s quivering under his touch, and Ron feels an unexpected rush of tenderness for this ridiculous person he’s found himself in bed with again. He doesn’t know that anyone else would ever let him do these things. So Ron smacks Malfoy twice more, softer, almost love taps rather than the spanks he knows Malfoy was expecting, and then immediately drops back so that he can run his lips and tongue over the heated flesh._ _

__“You can talk,” Ron murmurs against Malfoy’s skin._ _

__Instead of words, Malfoy lets out a low moan of pleasure and sags forward against the headboard._ _

__Ron presses a significant kiss to Malfoy’s arse-cheek. “Are you okay?” he asks, murmuring the question into Malfoy’s skin._ _

__“Ye-yes,” Malfoy stammers. “I’m okay. I’m all-all right.”_ _

__“I need to fuck you now,” Ron replies. “Can I?”_ _

__“Yes,” Malfoy answers quickly. “Please, yes, fuck me.”_ _

__Ron quickly Summons the lube from his dresser-drawer, liberally coats his fore and middle fingers and presses them into the welcome heat of Malfoy’s brilliant arse. He knows Malfoy’s not going to last much longer, so he deliberately avoids seeking out Malfoy’s prostate, needing him to hold on because he’s been in the position enough times by now to know that Malfoy’s almost useless when he comes before Ron does when Ron fucks him._ _

__“Fucking Merlin, Weasley, get in me now, now, fucking hell, now, please, please now!” Malfoy begs, pushing his arse back and straining against the headboard._ _

__“Not sure I gave you permission to keep talking, Malfoy,” Ron teases on a growl._ _

__Malfoy chokes off some no-doubt smart remark and pulls back again, hard enough that the bed creaks ominously._ _

__“Careful,” Ron laughs, “you’ll rip your arms from their sockets...or maybe you’ll tear those pretty black pants of yours.” But he’s straining himself, desperate to get inside Malfoy. His cock aches and pulses with need, so he gets up onto his knees, lines himself up and ghosts the head against Malfoy’s hole. “All right,” he commands, in a low voice, “beg me again.”_ _

__“Please, Weasley, fuck me. Please!” It bursts out of Malfoy with abandon, and he spreads his knees a little further, pushing himself back, as if he can get Ron inside him without Ron’s help._ _

__Ron lets out a low groan of need mixed with relief as he finally pushes in, slowly as Malfoy’s body acclimates to the feel of him. He buries himself to the hilt and nearly shivers from the sensation of hot, tight, absolutely perfect arse. “Fuck, your arse,” he moans._ _

__“Yes, do it!” Malfoy cries out, pushing back again as if to somehow get Ron further into him._ _

__“Easy now,” Ron replies, as he smacks Malfoy’s arse as if to reprimand him for speaking and then grabs the jumper again to anchor himself. He starts a carefully rhythmic pace in and out, but cannot keep it up for longer than a few moments. He’s too keyed-up already, and Malfoy feels too good. He picks up the pace until his hips are slamming and his bollocks are slapping obscenely against Malfoy’s arse with each inward go._ _

__It’s not long before Malfoy comes with a shout, and Ron follows almost immediately after, pumping hard into Malfoy’s arse. Then, with a deep sigh, he pulls out and falls to the side, only belatedly remembering to cancel the charm and disentangle Malfoy from his own pants up by the bedpost. Malfoy then collapses to the bed as well, shivering slightly, despite the jumper he still wears._ _

__Ron isn’t sure how long they lay there occupying the same space, but not wholly together. Malfoy seems to be somewhere else entirely, his eyes closed and his body trembling. Ron gathers him closer after several long moments of just watching, and Malfoy quiets somewhat. It isn’t until his trembling stops that Ron pulls back again and gets out of the bed._ _

__“Wait…”_ _

__Ron turns, but says nothing, unsure if there’s even anything to be said._ _

__Malfoy peels off the now sweat-and-come-stained jumper and tosses it to the foot of the bed. “I’m going to use your shower,” he says softly. He smirks gently, not the rude sneer that Ron’s used to, but a soft quirk of his lips that Ron can’t really decipher. “And then I’m going to use your bath…if you’re interested...” With that, he gets up, swaggers into the en suite with only a quick backward glance and shuts the door behind himself. Ron hears the shower start up moments later._ _

__He wonders when he let any of this happen and why it doesn’t feel as wrong as it should. He wonders, too, as he drags himself into a pair of joggers and then falls backward down on the bed, how long he’s going to let it continue._ _


	3. Chapter 3

The problem is that this thing with Malfoy is supposed to be uncomplicated; Ron’s not supposed to have to think about any of it too deeply. He’s just supposed to be able to lose himself in the tight heat of Malfoy’s brilliant arse and forget everything but sensation.

When they were still together, Hermione would say that he had a problem with thinking too much, especially in bed. Ron laughed it off every time because no one who knew him well ever accused him of thinking too much, and yet, it made some level of sense. Ron approached love-making like a chess game: he focused on the little details that gave away his partner’s intentions, carefully plotted his next move to exact the maximum damage and often came away with a sense of pride, even if the occasional sacrifice of his own pleasure was necessary for the win.

Malfoy is obviously a grand-fucking-master at chess.

Ron sits on his bed with his freshly-laundered basket of clothes, folding and putting everything away without magic, as if to distract himself from his own thoughts, but it’s not working. Not when Malfoy’s jumper is sitting in the bottom of the basket practically screaming at Ron to be noticed.

“The fuck?” he says aloud, when realizes suddenly that he’s thought of it as belonging to Malfoy, rather than himself. It’s his jumper of course; his mum knit it for him and so it belongs to him, and yet—it had looked so at home on Malfoy, so perfectly fitting despite the fact that it’s entirely too big for him and not the right color for his pale complexion at all.

Malfoy had left the jumper behind after their last tryst, with a passive-aggressive comment on his lips questioning whether or not Ron would even have noticed it missing since he clearly didn’t care about his wardrobe. It had taken everything Ron had in him not to smack Malfoy’s smart little mouth, and Malfoy’s eyes had glittered with mischief as he disappeared through the fireplace, like he knew exactly what Ron was thinking. He’d even lingered for a moment, like maybe it was exactly what he wanted Ron to do.

Ron reaches the jumper in the laundry basket and pulls it out to study. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about it, and Ron cannot think of a single reason that Malfoy would even want to wear it. It’s not at all Malfoy’s style, nor is it of the quality Malfoy’s clearly used to, and despite the many washings it’s gone through over the years, it still requires an Anti-Itching charm to be comfortable, yet—even now, freshly-laundered and smelling more like detergent than anything else, Ron can still faintly detect the scent he’s horrified to discover he associates with Malfoy: something sharp and woodsy, maybe. Ron’s never been particularly good at identifying complicated scents. He only knows that whatever it is, it’s not his own anymore. It’s Malfoy’s.

In a sudden blind fury, he lets out a growl and whips it across the bedroom. It lands half under a chair, the sleeves reaching as if someone is slowly crawling out. Ron flops down onto his back and tries not to think too hard about why he quickly Summons it back, presses it over his face and inhales its scent again.

His hand drifts down his body almost of its own accord and palms his cock through his thin grey bottoms. He remembers the way Malfoy had looked in it, so oddly open, and the way Malfoy had whimpered when Ron commanded him not to say a word. 

Ron twitches a bit until the jumper falls down from his face. With his free hand, he settles it across his bare chest and then hugs it close. He slips his other hand into his pants and wraps it around his hardening cock.

He imagines Malfoy’s mouth stretched prettily around his cock and his normally cold grey eyes alive with lust and need, as he pulls himself off languidly. He imagines Malfoy’s perfect long fingers in place of his own, teasing him to a height and then playfully pulling back. Malfoy coaxes an orgasm from Ron easily because his mouth fits so perfectly, unlike his slender arms which don’t quite fill the jumper’s maroon sleeves—

A sudden rapping at the door jolts Ron back to himself, and he rolls off the bed and grabs for his wand. He hurriedly casts a charm to clean up the mess he’s made of himself and then begins folding his laundry again. “Yeah, come on in,” he calls out, hoping he doesn’t sound as obvious and breathless as he is.

The door opens, and Harry stands there, carrying a tea tray that Kreacher must have prepared. Ron’s stomach rumbles loudly, and a quick glance at the clock reveals he’s been up in his room ostensibly putting his laundry away for nearly two hours.

“All right, mate?” Harry greets, not coming into the room. He averts his eyes somewhat, and a flush rises on his cheeks.

“Yeah, sure, er, come in,” Ron replies, as he quickly Banishes the remainder of his clothes into the drawers and tries to pretend he’s not completely mortified.

“You missed Hermione,” Harry says, as he walks over and puts the tea tray down on the small table across from the bed. “I tried calling you down, but I guess you were, er…”

“Asleep,” Ron replies, unable to tell Harry the real reason he missed their lunch date was because he was lost in thought and wanking over a Merlin-be-damned jumper, even though he knows Harry isn’t an idiot and obviously knows what he was up to. “Sorry, long night last night. I’ll make it up to the both of you. I, er—”

“Oh, sure, yeah, no worries about that…”

It’s absolutely insane, but Ron can almost swear that the stupid, ridiculous jumper is calling him from where he’d Banished it, like it knows it doesn’t belong in there with the rest. Perhaps he really is losing the plot. He glances over at the dresser and then back to Harry. “Sorry, what?”

“Didn’t say anything…” Harry cocks his head and looks shrewdly at Ron. Ron recognizes the look almost immediately: Harry’s detecting face, not that he’d ever admit to having one. But Ron’s known Harry since they were eleven-years-old, and he certainly knows when Harry’s on to something. 

Ron’s heart beats rapidly in his chest, and he walks over to the table to pick up a teacup.

Harry drags a hand through his hair. He always does that when he’s uncomfortable, Ron’s noticed. “You know I know, right?” Harry then says, his eyes open and painfully earnest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate,” Ron replies quickly. Too quickly, he knows, but well—Harry’s always been clever. Of course he already knows, though to what extent, Ron can’t guess. Ron’s not even sure how much he wants Harry to understand, if there’s anything at all.

“I’m just sort of waiting for you to tell me.” Harry walks closer to the table, closing the distance between them. “I hope you know you can tell me anything,” he adds.

Ron makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Then, he turns his head and offers Harry a grim smile. “There’s nothing to tell. It’s nothing.”

\-- -- -- --

“Oh, Ronald,” Hermione says, in that way of hers that Ron sometimes can’t figure out if it’s patronizing or genuine concern for him. “It’s obviously not nothing.”

He frowns and looks down at his hands. “Why can’t it be?”

“Because with your history, with _all of our_ history, it’s impossible for anything involving you and Malfoy to be _nothing_ ,” she replies. It’s not unreasonable of her to think so, of course. She’s not the bloody brightest witch of their age for nothing, but does she always have to demonstrate it so plainly? Even if it is Hermione, and he still loves her a great deal, it still stings a bit to have her so easily understand things he can’t even hope to figure out.

He shrugs then. “I’d like it to be nothing.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “No, you don’t, and _that_ is your problem, because if it really was nothing, then you could end it easily and it wouldn’t matter. But you don’t want to end it because you’re enjoying yourself, and clearly so is Malfoy, and there’s nothing at all wrong with having feelings for a person you’re shagging, which you very well know.”

She’s clearly building to a rant, and Ron quickly intercedes, saying, “All right, fine, I don’t want it to be nothing, but it’s...it’s getting really complicated, and I don’t want it to be complicated either.”

“Complicated how?”

“It’s, er, I don’t know, it’s—” Ron cuts himself off, struggling to find words to describe how he feels about what he and Malfoy do together. As Hermione had once herself accused him, understanding his own emotions was not really a skill Ron could claim he possessed. “I guess,” he begins again, cautiously, “it’s that it’s so different from what, you know, from how you and I used to…”

“...have sex?” she finishes for him, when he trails off. “I should hope so. You and I were having sex under a very specific set of circumstances: we were in love, as well as involved in a committed, monogamous relationship, and we were both still coming to grips with our identities in a post-Voldemort world.”

Resisting the urge to tell her she sounded like a psychology textbook, Ron instead says, “Fine, so we were in love, and it’s obviously going to be different, but I didn’t have to spank you in order for us to get off, Hermione.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him, looking far more interested now. “You’re into spanking now?”

Ron’s cheeks heat, and he avoids her eyes as he continues, “Well, yeah, but it’s not really so much the, er, you know, the spanking. It’s the other stuff that’s...you know, weird.”

“What other stuff?” she asks, and Ron could swear she already knows what he’s talking about and just wants him to embarrass himself further by saying it out loud.

“The...er, well, it’s sort of like, Malfoy likes it when I, er, when I order him about and I really like that too, but it’s more than that, and I, er—well, fuck, I don’t know, Hermione!” Ron throws his arms up, exasperated with himself and the situation. “And I really don’t know why I’m talking to you about this.”

“Would you rather speak to Harry about it?” she asks, tone shrewd once again.

“No,” Ron answers, shaking his head. “I don’t want to bother him, and he probably wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Hermione just looks at him for a moment, assessing, and Ron has to look away, before her expression softens and she reaches across the table to take his hand in hers. “Why don’t you start from the top then? Why do you feel like what you’re doing is ‘weird’?”

He doesn’t dare tell her about the jumper, partly because he gets the feeling she’ll figure him out immediately and it’ll make him feel foolish and partly because it feels very much like a private thing that only he and Malfoy are allowed to share, but he does at least attempt to explain about the rush and the sense of power he feels whenever Malfoy obeys his orders. He also tells her about how it feels sometimes at the end, when his chest aches a little as he watches Malfoy come down from the high and the urge he gets to do—something.

“So I guess,” he concludes, “I just, you know, when we’re...we’re _you know_ , I feel like there’s something I’m missing that he wants or I want, but I don’t know how to figure out what it is. But it’s something to do with...you know all the ordering around and stuff.” Ron shrugs, feeling more confused than when he stopped by Hermione’s flat in the first place.

She regards him carefully for a few moments again and then lets out an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Ronald,” she replies, “if you can’t talk about it maturely, you probably shouldn’t be _doing it_.” She gets up from the couch and walks over to her extensive bookshelf. “But as I think you’d both probably feel better and enjoy it more if either one of you knew what you were getting yourselves into…here you are.”

She hands Ron a book, and he glances at the cover, first wary and then distinctly embarrassed. It reads, BDSM Practices for Beginners. “Hermione, why do you have this?” he asks, managing to look up at her when he thinks he’s got his blush under control.

Hermione sits down, carefully not looking at him, and answers, “I may have suspected that there was something lacking in our sex life and thought that possibly this could be an answer.” He must make a face because she holds up a hand and quickly continues, “Don’t. I promise you our relationship did not stop working because of what we did in the bedroom.”

“And the kitchen that once,” Ron adds, a small smile coming to his lips.

She smiles back at him fondly. “We did have some fun together,” she replies, her tone only the barest hint wistful.

Not for the first time since their break-up does Ron wonder if they did the right thing. He wonders if they’d have been engaged by now and if he’d still have been an Auror—he wonders a lot of things. “Do you…” he trails off, the unspoken question hanging between them.

Hermione shakes her head. “No, we weren’t suited for the long-term, and you know it as well as I do.”

“S’pose not,” Ron replies after a moment of inward reminiscence, shrugging his shoulders. He flips the book open then and leafs quickly through it, eyes catching keywords here and there that make his eyebrows jump up. “Do you really think this is for me?”

“Give it a read and see for yourself,” Hermione responds enigmatically.

Ron supposes that it certainly can’t hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s always been rough between them, ever since it started, but now that he has a handy reference guide, Ron can look back on his and Malfoy’s earliest trysts to see them for what they really were, or rather, what Malfoy had been aiming to get.

_I know I’m pale, but I’m not_ actually _made of porcelain, Weasley._

_You could at least pretend to put your back into it, or is this really all the power you’ve got?_

_I couldn’t possibly have expected less of your skill, and yet…_

Ron had quite literally shut Malfoy’s mouth that last time by gagging him; he’d stuffed Malfoy’s pants between his thin lips and then pounded Malfoy’s arse so hard he’d left fingerprint bruises on Malfoy’s hips where he’d been holding him. After he’d come, Ron had collapsed onto Malfoy, only to quickly roll off for fear that possibly he’d gone too far that time in how rough he’d gotten, but Malfoy had only waited patiently for Ron to remove the makeshift gag and then had smiled dazedly up at him. He’d come sometime during Ron’s frenzy, without a hand on his cock, or at least Ron didn’t think Malfoy’d been able to get a hand on himself, and that had been so...rewarding. It had been, if he really let himself think about it, almost better than coming himself, knowing what he'd been able to make Malfoy do.

So no, it was never just Malfoy, of course that had been pushing for it, and Ron knows that he has his share of the responsibility for whatever happened between them and whatever is to come. Because one thing Hermione’s sexy book has shown him is that there’s a whole host of things he’s very, very eager to try, and if Malfoy’s even half the masochist he appears to be, he’s probably also pretty eager to try some new things too.

“Any good?”

Ron looks up from the book, startled by Harry’s abrupt entrance—although from the look on Harry’s face, it’s more than possible he’s been in the kitchen for quite a while now and had possibly been trying to get Ron’s attention for the same amount of time. He blushes and shuts the book, setting it down next to his plate and quickly reaching for his toast. “Oh you know, the usual, space aliens and whatnot,” he replies. He’d charmed the cover to look like a generic science fiction novel the moment he’d brought it home, totally not at all ready to have any sort of conversation about it with Harry.

“Mmm,” Harry hums, seemingly noncommittal, as he turns to the hob and whatever he’s making himself for breakfast. “Er, did you want to...oh unless you have to work today, but ah, Horace just installed one of those new Wireless tellys at the Leaky and was gonna show the Arrows match this afternoon?”

“Aw fuck me, that’s sounds proper fun, but I’ve got a shift at the shop.” The lie comes out so easily, Ron’s a little shocked with himself. But Merlin, it’s not like he can admit to Harry he’s got a sex date with Malfoy for fuck’s sake. Harry absolutely won’t understand, and further, he’ll probably just think it’s something he needs to solve, and Ron isn’t eager to pile more problems onto Harry’s already-full plate. “Next weekend?” he offers. Malfoy’s off to Wiltshire next weekend, to top up his allowance no doubt, the entitled git.

Harry doesn’t respond for long enough that Ron assumes he’s caught out in the lie, but then he smiles and shrugs, saying, “Great, I’ll pencil you in.”

There’s a bit of snark in it, and it prickles under Ron’s skin enough that he can feel an imminent fight if he just responds the way he wants. “Sounds great,” he manages to hold himself to, and he’s pretty sure there’s not enough bite in the response to push Harry into something. Ron really doesn’t want to fight; or not with Harry, anyway.

Harry doesn’t respond right away again, but the silence is less tense than the one before, and then he levitates a couple pieces of bacon onto Ron’s plate as what can only be a peace offering. Ron picks one up and crunches into it, and it’s cooked exactly the way he likes: just on this side of burnt, whereas Harry hates super well-done bacon. “Thanks, mate,” Ron says, feeling cowed in a way he doesn’t care for at all, but also begrudgingly knows he deserves. Harry might not know for sure that his supposed best mate is a bloody liar, but Ron sure as hell knows he’s being a prat.

It’s just a complicated situation, he thinks, trying to absolve himself before he inevitably spirals out. Harry absolutely does not need a best mate who can’t control himself like a damned adult. Ron has found himself in a complicated situation, in spite of the fact that it should have been simple, so navigating it is going to take some strategic maneuvering until he has a clearer picture of what he’s dealing with. That’s all. He doesn’t need to involve Harry until he has a better handle on it. That is all.

“Think Crestledon will be starting in goal after that nonsense last match?” Ron asks. “Dunno what Quackenbush was thinking trying out that kid from the farm team—what’s he called, Graves?”

Harry seems taken aback by the seeming subject change, but he takes a seat at the table and opines for a while on the merits of the Cannons leadership giving starting chances to the bench when it’s obvious that the team once again has no shot whatsoever at post-season play, and Ron has to smile at how normal it feels. The conversation flows for a while until Ron makes noises about getting ready for work, and Harry waves him off. He looks happier too, and Ron only feels a little guilty about putting on the show. It’s not like this is going to be forever, after all. Ron just has to keep things to himself—himself and Hermione, that is—until he’s fucked Malfoy out of his system.

Ron showers and dresses in comfortable clothes, then putters nervously around his bedroom straightening things and casting last-moment cleaning charms that aren’t of much use beyond distraction. Malfoy’s due in about ten minutes by the time Ron’s completed a third circuit of the room, and so he heads downstairs to complete the ruse of leaving for work with Harry, only to find that Harry’s left before him. Per the hastily-scrawled note Ron finds on the table by the front door, he’s gone to meet up with several of the lads for a pick-up game of Quidditch before the Arrows/Harpies match that afternoon at the Leaky. So that’s fine then; it appears Ron doesn’t have to go through the whole song and dance just to get his peace and quiet with Malfoy. That’s just perfectly fine by him.

The rushing sound of the Floo catches Ron’s attention. He sets the now-crumpled note on the side-table, and he goes to meet Malfoy in the living room.

“Do you employ house elves, Weasley, or are you still on that ridiculous crusade?”

Something in Ron relaxes, even as his shoulders tense and his hands curl into fists. “You’ve been here less than one second, what can you possibly take issue with?” he asks, leaning in the doorway and taking in the sight of Malfoy pretending to brush dirt from his shoulders with his lip curled up in distaste.

“Your Floo is filthy, but I supposed I shouldn’t expect—”

A sharp crack interrupts Malfoy, signaling the appearance of Kreacher. Over the last couple years, the elf has become even more unreliable than he’d formerly been, and he seems to take great offense if someone comments on the state of the place. Considering all the renovations Ron and Harry have completed, Twelve Grimmauld Place actually resembles a lovely home these days, which Kreacher seems to have taken as a personal affront, but Kreacher seems to hate even more when someone finds fault with it. “Will the young Master Malfoy take tea?” Kreacher asks, glaring at Malfoy.

Malfoy pauses in his little performance and shoots a glance at Ron, who has to hide a smile behind his hand. “Please,” Malfoy then responds, much more politely than he ever would be to Ron himself.

Kreacher disappears with another loud crack. “Yes, we still employ an elf,” Ron then says, amused.

“Hilarious, Weasley, truly,” Malfoy responds, as he finally doffs his traveling cloak and tosses it carelessly over the armchair by the fireplace. He glances around the room and then looks at Ron, and there’s a question on his face that he doesn’t voice.

Ron knows what he wants. “It’s up in my bedroom, if you like.”

Malfoy’s eyes betray him, lighting up for the quickest moment before his expression smooths over again. “I think I’d like my tea first,” he answers coyly.

“S’pose I’ll go get it for you, your highness,” Ron offers; because he suddenly very much wants to see Malfoy wearing it. The outfit he has on right now isn’t quite right. Malfoy will look better drinking his tea while wearing his jumper.

The soft smile that graces Malfoy’s lips is answer enough for Ron, so he leaves Malfoy to the sitting room and jogs back upstairs to retrieve the jumper. He pauses for just a moment in front of the mirror on his bedroom door and takes in the state of himself. He looks...confident, he thinks. And that’s good. That’s what he needs and what Malfoy wants.

He tosses it over to Malfoy where he’s sitting, perched on the edge of the couch like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse, when he gets back downstairs, not quite trusting himself to help Malfoy into it, though the desire to do so crops up strongly to his own surprise. They will have time enough for something like that later, maybe. Malfoy slowly undoes his button-up and carefully peels himself out of it. The room feels a little hotter, as Malfoy pulls the jumper over his now bare chest, then smooths his hands down the front of it, tracing the outside lines of the W. He looks up at Ron and there’s that same strange thing in his eyes, the vulnerability that always punches Ron directly in the chest. But maybe now, with his newly-gained knowledge of what some of this is supposed to mean, Ron can do the right thing in response.

Kreacher pops back into the room just long enough to put a tea tray on the table and thrust a cuppa at Malfoy before disappearing again with a deafening crack.

The teacup in Malfoy’s hands is bright pink and chipped, and Ron did see the look of distaste Malfoy gave it when Kreacher handed it to him. It leaves a bad taste in Ron's mouth. He's reminded that this is the person Malfoy is and always has been: the absolute prat who deserves everything he gets and then some. He tries not to focus too hard on the way the jumper gapes a bit at the neck and exposes part of Malfoy’s collarbone. Visible there is a purplish mark that, despite the fire in his veins and the rapidly seesawing feelings of desire and distaste warring in Ron, draws Ron's attention with precise focus. It's likely the wrong move, or maybe it's the exact right one to say, through gritted teeth:

“I didn’t give you that."

“Didn’t give me what?” Malfoy airly responds, even though he must know.

Ron’s across the room before he can even think to stop himself. He yanks the collar over further and digs a thumb into the little bruise. “This!” he hisses, leaning down in Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy pushes back against the cushions, cheeks reddening, though whether from embarrassment or anger, Ron doesn’t actually know. He doesn’t care though. He can work with either. “Don’t be such an oaf, of course you did, Weasley,” he says. Malfoy looks up, and his grey eyes are darkening, with a wild look in them that Ron’s seen so many times before.

“You’re such a sick little freak,” Ron snarls, as he presses his thumb a little harder into the bruise, drawing a gasp from Malfoy’s lips. “What kind of a sick little freak gets off by being hurt?”

“What kind of a sick freak gets off on hurting people?” Malfoy returns, but his voice is breathy, hitching slightly. When he finishes speaking, his eyes stay focused on Ron’s own as he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and then bites down with even white teeth.

For a moment, Ron almost can’t believe that it’s really true, that Malfoy really wants this sort of thing, and wants it from him of all people. But then he supposes that if his predilections ran as Malfoy’s did, he’d seek out someone who hated him too. Surely it’s easier to treat someone poorly if you hate them and vice versa, regardless of what Hermione’s little book says about how pain can be an act of love.

There’s absolutely no love lost here.

Malfoy inhales through his nose and exhales long and slow through his barely-parted lips, and Ron just watches him for a moment, before he takes the teacup out of Malfoy’s hands, puts it down on the tray and says quietly, “We need to choose a word.”

“Asphodel,” Malfoy replies easily, and his lips curve up into that puzzling bright smile for a moment before his expression neutralizes again.

Ron nods. “Asphodel,” he echoes, committing it to memory.

Malfoy lowers his head then, eyes cast down at the floor in front of Ron’s feet. “Thank you, Weasley,” he says. He sounds _relieved_.

“Now get on your knees,” Ron orders quietly, and crows inwardly when Malfoy immediately obeys.


End file.
